


Scout's Latest Addiction

by MaggotMagnet



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Allegory, Comedy, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Texting, phone, text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggotMagnet/pseuds/MaggotMagnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scout buys a pager and cannot stop texting. Uh oh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breakfast

On Monday morning, something very strange happened.

For breakfast, it was Engineer's turn to throw something on the griddle, so he whipped up a big platter of instant pancakes—Scout's favorite. The whole team had soon gathered around the table, chew-talking about new taunts and strategy and the song playing on the radio.

Then, out of the blue, Pyro looked around and announced, "Scmmt'sh mmssng."

Sure enough, he was nowhere to be found in the kitchen, and no one had seen/heard/kicked him earlier that morning. This was entirely unheard of, and some teammates attempted to formulate lame conclusions as to why this may have occurred.

"Could it be he is still sleeping?" suggested Spy.

But that wasn't like Scout. He bolted upright and out of bed almost as fast as Soldier could.

Sniper shrugged. "Maybe runnin' laps."

His theory was plausible, of course. On sunny days, Scout ran laps outside before breakfast, and today was a sunny day. But when the REDs looked out the big sliding kitchen windows, they did not see him anywhere around the track.

The young man skipping a pancake breakfast? Very strange indeed.

So Medic was sent to find out the young man's morning malfunction, 'just in case it was medical' (which was quite a flimsy excuse to choose him as the envoy). "Oh, fine," he had groaned, walking out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He passed door after door, and stopped at the emblem Scout had personally placed over his bedroom's entrance—a paper on which he had effortfully drawn his class symbol, himself wielding a baseball bat, and intimidating letters that read, 'Better Have A Good Reason To Knock, Candyass'.

"Herr Scout, are you awake?" Medic called, rapping on his chamber door.

"Yeah," said Scout's muffled voice, which in fact sounded very awake. "What do you want?"

Medic raised an eyebrow. "It's 7:40. We're all in zhe kitchen eating breakfast. What is taking you so long in zhere?"

After groans and grumbles and a few cabinet-slams, the door opened and there stood Scout: uniform twisted over his stomach, eyes adorned with dark uneven sags, and an odd gadget in his left hand.

Medic winced. "Are you sick?"

Scout stared back at him blankly. "Huh?"

This was too strange. Frowning, Medic reached out to hit him lightly on the arm, making sure he was not an undercover Frenchman, to which Scout stumbled back and grumpily snapped, "Hey, knock it off, bozo." Yes, the boy before him was Scout, in the flesh. Just a very gloomy-looking tired-eyed Scout.

Medic pointed at his gadget and said, "Hmf. What's zhat?"

"None of your beeswax, dat's what," he scoffed, shoving past him. "It's 7:40 already? Jeez. Where's breakfast?"

Medic watched Scout slowly scuttle through the hallway, not noticing he was kneading his rubber gloves together in worried curiosity. "Your breakfast is on zhe kitchen table," said Medic, "which is where it has been for zhe past twenty minutes."

"What's for breakfast?" he muttered, taking another few wobbly steps while pulling out his device to tap on it.

Medic smiled, sure that his next sentence was sure to finally snap Scout back into himself. "Pancakes!" he announced. "Mm-mm. Your favorite, ja? We left you one in zhe kitchen, so hurry, before someone else eats it."

Now before I let you know how Scout reacted to that, I must remind you that Scout is not one for delayed reactions. If you yelled 'heads up' and threw a dozen of eggs at his forehead, he could catch them all in his hands without a single shell harmed. So when Scout froze for a long while like a confused robot, his thumbs tapping spastically on the device, and only _then_  lifted his head to say, "Wait, what? Didn't hear ya", that really spooked Medic.

Pulling on his collar, the doctor said, nervously, "I said it is pancakes. One left for you. Go to zhe kitchen."

"Aw yeah pancakes!" whooped Scout. Unfortunately, in his excitement, he forgot to look up. He started running towards the general direction of the kitchen, still focused on the dark green screen of his clickety device, and thus inevitably slammed himself face-first into an ammunition dispenser.

This was, if you were a deranged sadistic psychopath, absolutely hilarious. Which was why Medic almost choked on his lungs laughing.

But still his doctor was a good sport about it and quietly asked the young man if he was all right.

"Yeah, I'm all right," Scout grunted, snatching his device from the floor. He got up and brushed his shoulder off, called Medic a rude word, and then strolled to the kitchen by himself (with Medic awkwardly trailing a few steps behind him).

* * *

"Didn't think you'd be so late, Scout," said Engineer, taking a sip of cocoa. "Aren't pancakes your favorite?"

"You bet," said Scout, grinning as he took a seat at the group table. He was about to reach for his plate, but then froze as he heard a short buzz from his pocket. Ceasing any thought process he had beforehand, Scout immediately he grabbed his device and clicked away on it with both his thumbs.

Spy peered over his shoulder, curious. "Oo. Is zhat some sort of game?"

"No," said Scout.

"May I try...tapping it?"

"No," said Scout.

"Don't bother talking to Scout today, everyone," announced Medic, blowing on his mug of hot cocoa. "He's been grumpy all morning, and all he does is tick-tick-tick on zhat tappy contraption. Anybody know what it is?"

"Mann Co started shippin' two-way pagers," said Sniper who was an avid reader of the catalogues. "Buy-one-get-one-free. Probably gave one to a friend, eh Scout?"

"Yep, a guy back in Boston," said Scout, quite agreeably. "Got it mailed to him."

Meanwhile Pyro was blowing bubbles into the cocoa with a straw. No one paid Pyro any mind, as usual.

Demoman, mouth full of his own pancake, gave Scout a shoulder-nudge. "Man, ye gonnae have that, or...?"

Scout stopped texting to shoot him a sizzling glare. "Do  _not_  eat it."

"Well, Ae don't see  _you_ eatin' it."

"I see me eating it," said Heavy.

Soldier poked the pancake with his finger disgustedly. "Look at that, Scout. It is already colder than an arctic tundra. You have ruined a perfectly good breakfast meal."

Scout continued typing while giving him an absent groan which could be encrypted into the words, "Alright one sec okay geez can you not."

So naturally Soldier's eyes slid to the odd machinery in the young man's hands. "Oh, _I_ get it. Your privileged machinery-dependent generation is too BUSY playing Mouse In The Maze to eat FOOD!?"

"What da hell is a Mousy Maze?" said Scout, chuckling. "I  _said_  I'll eat it in a sec okay geez be quiet already."

The grizzled veteran took this opportunity to describe the completely-true not-imaginary-at-all famines taking place during his own childhood. Every day Soldier had gratefully crunched down broiled sawdust for breakfast, and considered a single grain of sugar to be a fine delicatessen. The closest thing he got to instant cocoa back then was a single droplet of muddy sewer water, and he savored every damn molecule of it!

"IN CONCLUSION," he yelled, "BE GRATEFUL AND DO NOT WASTE YOUR DELICIOUS PANCAKE, YOU SPOILED BRAT!"

Scout let out a huffy sigh at that. "Wastin' pancakes?  _Who's_ wastin' pancakes? I said I'm gonna eat it. I just gotta have  _one more second_ —"

"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! Did you just use seconds in a  _metaphorical sense?_  That is COMPLETELY UNTOLERABLE! You know  _why?_ Because THIS IS THE BATTLEFIELD! AND WHEN WE SAY 'ONE SECOND', WE MEAN  _ONE!LITERAL! SECOND!_ " Soldier stood up and yanked Scout's device away to boost it high into the air, then pointed at the pancake. "EAT YOUR BREAKFAST!"

Scout yelped and desperately clawed at Soldier's elbows, gasping, already dependent on his ticky-thing to live. "Give it, Soldier! Give it back, you idiot!"

Demoman burst into laughter. "Hop higher, bunny-boy!"

"My, what a show," said Spy, snickering.

With a grunt, Scout bounced up in his chair and almost snatched it from Soldier, but the man cackled and raised it higher. "C'MON, GIVE IT!" whined Scout, scrambling up from his seat and accidentally slamming his knee on the table in the process, spurring harder laughter from others in the room. All the cacophony in the kitchen grew louder and louder, rowdier and rowdier, until a certain angry Russian could take it no more.

At the boom of his fist slamming the table, everyone immediately froze. Soon after the REDs cautiously turned their heads towards Heavy, with their eyes wide, as the low thwack of hand-against-wood continued to echo through the base.

"Soldier," Heavy growled through his teeth, "give him stoopid toy. Scout, stop being baby. Rest of team, shut up."

"Fine!" Soldier tossed it onto the table, where it clattered against a spoon. "Here's your fancy little typewriter, Christopher Sholes. Now go finish the damn pancake you haven't even _started_ yet. You kids and your fancy telegraphing."

Scout slid his pancake-plate towards himself. "It's called textin' _,_ " he muttered before shoving a cold forkful between his teeth.

"It's called YOU have THREE MINUTES to EAT," said Soldier, leaning his head much too close to Scout's ear, "SO  _HURRY UP!_ "

A few minutes passed by in silence. The REDs were all considering how detrimental Scout's pager could be in that day's battle, and worrying how the young man would deal with constant technological beguilement all throughout the fights. In truth, they also mentally cursed themselves for laughing and yelling and making animal noises at Soldier's attempt to take the pager away. Had they not caused a ruckus, Heavy would not have told Soldier to give it back; had Soldier not given it back, Scout would have been alert and not texting at the moment; had Scout not been texting at the moment, Scout would immensely enjoy the honor of eating the very last pancake.

As Scout sat there texting with his mouth full of cold pancake, everyone noticed he was chewing boredly like a cow grazing on grass, even though this was his official certified Favorite Breakfast. If the battery-powered distraction nestled under Scout's fingers completely rescinded his ability to enjoy his favorite breakfast meal, there's no telling what it would do to him during the day's Capture the Flag round. Also, what a waste of a last pancake.

"It's strange that Ah never noticed a pager in our catalogue," Engineer wondered aloud with his cocoa in his hands, angling his torso towards the hand-sized contraption. "Say, do ya remember what issue of the Mann Co—"

"Here's _my_  issue," said Scout, shriveling away from Engineer. "It's dat people keep leaning over my shoulder every five freakin' seconds."

" _AGAIN_ WITH THE METAPHORICAL SECONDS!" sobbed Soldier.

There was a short crackle over the intercom, after which the Announcer curtly said that the battle doors will be flinging open in fifteen minutes. Everybody bustled off from their kitchen seats and into the respawn room to pack up supplies, but Scout's thumbs were still ticking away.

And, as we have mentioned before, he was not one of delayed reactions.

Very strange indeed.


	2. Fryzon Triplekill Laser-Blaster 9000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle begins, with Scout as the intel-defender.

“And since Scout is being a total telegraphing _turd_ today,” said Soldier to the rest of the team in the respawn room, “ _he_ should be guarding the intelligence.”

“What!” yelped Heavy, who is not usually a yelper.

Demoman groaned. “You’re kiddin’ me, Sol! Look at him. Standin’ there with his spindle-legs! He can’t defend a bloody trash can.”

Medic shot the still-texting Scout a glare, making it a point to heal everyone in the room but him. “He can’t defend _anything_ with his eyes glued to zhat health-detrimental thingamabob!”

Pyro, currently spinning around the room, crashed into a wall and thumped onto the floor.

“But we can get Engineer on offense instead,” suggested Sniper, not thinking Soldier’s plan was too bad. “Switch it up, y’know.”

A few other teammates nodded, muttering their agreement in small uh-huh-that’s-all-right noises.

“Sounds like a plan,” said Engineer, although to him it did not sound like a _good_ plan, but he did not want to argue minutes before the battle started. He nudged Scout with a free elbow. “Can ya do that, kid?”

Scout looked up, blinking his eyes. “Huh? Do what?”

Delayed reactions; once again, not a good sign. Knowing that, the Texan gulped and quietly said, “Guard the intel today.”

The young man nodded, then looked down. “All right, sure. Much easier than gettin’ da intel, how I always do.” Then he stuck his tongue out and texted even faster.

Engineer winced towards his team.

“If it’s disastrous,” said Spy, poofing into his cloak and out of sight, “we’ll think of something.”

Then sirens wailed, metal doors flung open, and the battle began.

 

* * *

 

Once in the confines of the RED defense room, Scout took a seat on the intel desk, right beside the spinning levitating briefcase. He looked around the room with a sigh, then pulled his pager out.

_ther makn me defend the intel today...booooriiiiing_

_lmao_

Scout briefly looked around to check if anybody was trying to kill him. Alas, he was not being attacked at that time. Therefore he proceeded to continue texting his friend. Battle tactics to the max, everyone.

_soo ... wuts up w/ u ?_

_nothin. chillin @ home, watchng sum tv_

_cool_

_yaa_

A faraway something panged against metal. Like a bright-eyed ferret, Scout’s head shot up, scanned the room, and went back down. Instead of leaping forward to run and investigate, his fingers immediately tapped another message to his buddy back in Boston.

_i just hrd sumtin, brb_

_kk_

Scout put his pager in his pocket and walked in a cautious circle around the intel room, peeking into the hallways.

“Anybody in here?” he called, which produced an echo back across the basement: _...anybody in here?...in here?..._

Scout had always thought it was this stand-here-and-slap-people’s-hands-if-they-get-near sort of deal, like making sure little kids don’t reach into a bowl of cookie dough. But here was Scout, gulping nervously in the dark, looking around but seeing only creeping shadows. There had always been teammates assigned to keep watch of the briefcase, but this was the first time they’d handed the job to Scout. He had never defended the intel before; he had never realized how scary it was.

Then Scout grinned. Because the scariness wouldn’t be a problem at all, as long as he had his trusty—

He patted his side.

He patted his other side.

Crap.

_hey bro u back yet ?_

That was what the message read when Scout pulled out his buzzing pager. Ducking into the corner of the room, he hurriedly sent a cry for help, by texting his friend who was over a thousand miles away.

_dude im havng an emergncy wat do i do!!! i forgt to brng my guns b4 the battle im such a frickin idiot wat do i do wat do i do???!!_

_uhhhh wait this is a legit battle ? not traning_

_yea_

_o ok. can't u try to beat them up w/ ur hands or somthng?_

_dude wtf they have rocket launchrs n shit !!!!!_

_lmao ur screwed_

Scout jumped at the feel of metal to his ear. “Peekaboo,” said a voice.

Oh joy. Scout gulped and slowly put his pager in his pocket. Time to rack his brain for a master plan to get out alive.

It was Spy who walked around the young man, laughing, his gun still centimeters from Scout’s cerebrum. “My goodness. What idiot assigned you to defend?”

“I did,” he said, sweating profusely. “’Cause g-guess what? I got da most kickass new weapon you never even heard of. It’s from da new update. It’s called da Fryzon Triplekill Laser-Blaster 9000. So if you don’t wanna get teleported to an alternate dimension, ya better skedaddle yer ass.”

Spy’s eyes bulged out. “Really?”

“Yeah, no joke,” said Scout.

The Frenchman shrugged, keeping the gun aimed to Scout’s head, and decided to make casual conversation. “It’s like zhe Righteous Bison, I suppose?”

“Exactly, but much deadlier,” he assured him.

“Market price?”

“Uh...13 ref.”

Spy raised his brows. “Mmm. Not bad. Can I see it?”

Scout pretended to lift something from the desk. Then he heftily raised up his empty hands. “Here it is,” he said, pausing for a little while. “Except obviously it’s invisible to da other team. Like da Emperor’s New Robe, y’know.”

Spy squinted.

“Better back off or I’ll shoot,” warned Scout.

They stood there for a little while after that, listening to faraway computer beeps, feeling very awkward.

“You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?” asked Spy, quite bitterly.

“What do yo—”

A few seconds later a bullet exploded through Scout’s forehead and the intel was already halfway up the stairs.

 

 


	3. Respawn, Raze, and Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout comes back to life, sorts everything out with his friend, and shows some BLUs who's boss.

When Scout respawned, he didn’t leave the room. In a depressed attempt to get it together, he walked in roundabout trails on the white-grey tiles, again and again and again. Once for every circle, he purposely nudged the resupply locker so he could hear that satisfying _badada-bum-bum-chssssssss-chechuk_ as it uselessly restored his already-full health and beamed up ammunition to guns he hadn’t picked up yet.

During that five-foot-diameter walk, Scout regretted his embarrassing undeserved death, wondered what the enemy Spy had already told the other BLUs, and muttered every synonym to ‘stupid’ he knew.

Once he was done, Scout sat on the resupply bench and sighed. Just as a Scotsman would reach for his scrumpy, just as a Frenchman would reach for a smoke, a certain something was taken out of Scout's pocket again.

_bro i feel like such an idiot_

_y_

_i lied there was a new dr grordbort pack with a scout weapon, and that it was invisible like the emperors new robe haha, and i almost tricked him, but then that french candyass blew my brains out w/ his freakin ambassador._

_lol what ?_

“The enemy has secured our intelligence,” hissed the Announcer, right before Scout was thumped onto his back on the cold linoleum, crying out at the aching impact to his stomach. “OW! WHAT DA HELL WAS DAT FOR?”

Heavy was standing over him, red-faced with fury. “We give you easiest job in the world,” he growled through his teeth. “Stand next to briefcase. And what does little Scout baby do? Lets other team capture. And still he _dares_ to use stoopid baby toy.”

Scout rubbed his stomach, having nothing to say.

Heavy picked him up from the floor by the neck, like a young puppy, and plopped him in front of the respawn locker. Scout heard the _badada-bum-bum-chssssssss-chechuk_ like he always did, but it was not as satisfying this time.

“Take gun,” said Heavy, pressing a scattergun to Scout’s chest. “Take drink,” he said, shoving a Bonk into his pocket. “Take bat,” he said, wedging it under Scout’s elbow. Then he leaned in slowly, breathing deeply through his snarl, stopping centimeters away from Scout’s nervous face.

“NOW GET _OOOOOOOUUUUUUUUT!_ ” roared Heavy, creating wind currents that made Scout’s torso flap as a paper would in a hurricane.

With his heart pumping and his ears ringing, Scout sprinted out of respawn and into the intel room as fast as his legs could carry him.

* * *

 

_sup bro_

_got yelled at_

_y_

_they dont want me textng_

_wowww_

_but i mean theyve got a point cuz i just friggin died hahaha_

_ya did? hahahahaha_

Scout was about to reply to that with more hahahas, but flew up as something stabbed deeply into his side. “HOLY—”

The BLU Medic laughed as Scout heaved against the intel desk, now with a bonesaw lodged in a tight cavity between his ribs. “Spy was right!” He laughed. “Not only could a man of science like I get past your team’s terrible defense...I could also walk into a peaceful intel room, and see you, Scout, clicking away on your shtupid pager.”

“It ain’t s-stupid...ya dick...” Scout, who was coughing up blood and seconds away from dying, shakily raised up his scattergun. He shot twice at the two-feet-away-from-him doctor’s chest, but miraculously missed him both times.

Medic fake-gasped. “Oo, Scout, you and your little pager gave me a boo-boo,” he mocked. Another nasty laugh, and then he promptly ran out of the room with the briefcase in his arms.

Scout grunted and extended a hand to grab his Bonk, but his fingers had gotten so numb by then that he couldn’t pop it open. He loudly called Medic a dickwad again, then coughed up some blood and blacked out.

* * *

 

“I’m going to fight like crazy this time,” Scout growled to himself as he bolted out of the resupply and down their intel staircase. “No one in da world can make _me_ look like some weak piece a’ jigglybutt.”

But there was a small detail he overlooked in that plan. As he started down the stairs he felt a short vibration in his pocket. Scout ignored it for a few seconds, but knowing that it was mean to ignore his friend, he soon sighed and gave in.

_where u be broskiiiii_

Scout typed back as he walked into the intelligence room;

_sry cant talk_

_y_

_cuz_

_y_

_cuz im fighting !!! jeez dude_

_so wat?_

_i dont wana die for the 3rd frickn time_

_so waaaat???? im bored_

Scout gawked at the pager, disgusted. Of all the words and all the sentences in the world to get someone to keep texting, his friend chose ‘I’m bored’ This was not how he expected his friend to talk to him during something as important as a battle. Especially after Scout gave him a free matching 30-dollar pager.

The RED struggled to think of a friendly way to let him know that being ‘bored’ wasn’t a good reason to keep distracting Scout. Because although his friend’s text may have sounded quite selfish, a bro was a bro, and maybe he hadn't meant for it to come out the way it did. Scout decided there was no need to get all pissy and butthurt about it.

_ummmm cuz dying is pretty serious, plus it actually hurts, soooo its a pretty big deal and i sort of get disracted when you send me stuff_

_aww cmon dude you dont know how bored i am lol_

Scout pressed his lips together and wrote firmly;

_no offense but im trying to work so take a break and stop textng me k?_

_y_

The pager was calmly placed onto the intel desk. Scout focused in on it, staring at its plucky keyboard and green calculator screen. He thought about his idiot friend. He thought about texting. He thought about how he felt when Medic stabbed him through the ribs and laughed.

Suddenly Scout’s steel bat was striking the pager repeatedly, rattling and disfiguring the device with every clank, until its screen was cracked and crumbled and it looked like a technologic scrambled egg. It buzzed a pleading helpless buzz and then, with a final blow, was reduced to a keyboard with a now pitch-black screen.

Scout took a deep breath, satisfied. It was over.

Then he heard leathery boots clomping down the intel stairs. Darting across the room like a living shadow, Scout pressed himself against a wall, where he knew he couldn’t be seen by somebody entering. He took silent breaths through his nose as he focused on BLU voices and clothes-rustles.

Something followed the leathery boots—first, a more rubbery boot-pair, and then the click of nicely polished spats. He chewed on his lip. Of course. Soldier, Medic, and Spy were trying to sabotage him. Their whispers could be heard loud and clear as they got closer, but they obviously thought that Scout was too engrossed in his pager to notice.

“No, really! Don’t worry. Last time I was here, he didn’t even look up!”

“I wonder who assigned him to defend...”

“Sh! Quiet! Do NOT mess up our opportunity!”

_Yeah, don’t mess it up,_ thought Scout, grinning. _That’s my job._

When they crept into the room, looking around for Scout to be sitting on his butt texting, the young man in question flew out of his hiding spot and cracked a bullet through Soldier’s thick neck.

“REVENGE, BITCHES,” he shouted, shooting the other two multiple times between the ears.

After gargling on their own blood, all three flopped onto each other, dead. After a few seconds their bodies faded away, and Scout knew he had won.

“Aw yeah, I'm da boss, yeeeaah, I'm da boss,” sang Scout, winding up to do a little butt-wiggling victory dance, but it was interrupted by a crackle over the intercom. The Announcer grimly stated that there were eight minutes left in the mission, and it then occurred to Scout that his team hadn’t captured a single briefcase.

And Scout was going to do something about it.


	4. Three, Two, One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the game ended.

Determinedly he bolted up the stairs, zigzagging towards RED’s front-lines, where he knew his team would be. And the first person he saw was a certain Texan in overalls, tightening the bottom bolts of his sentry gun.

Engineer greeted him with a wave, though it wasn’t a friendly one. “Scout! What’re you doing? C’mere!”

Scout was there in a second, crouching behind a dispenser. “Yo,” he said, hurriedly reloading his gun.

“‘Yo’?” barked Engineer, teeth bared. “You stop guarding the intel, come here, and tell me ‘Yo’? Are you out of your damn mind?”

Scout raised up his hand. “Hear me out,” he said firmly. “I know dat I’m da best player on dis freakin’ team, yadda-yadda, whatever. But all of us have different things we’re good at. And if BLU has two caps and we don’t even have one, I don’t think our priorities are set straight." Scout looked aside and took a deep breath. "Y'know, it ain’t just strength that wins; it’s lovin’ your role in da game and takin’ it seriously. Just like Soldier says.”

“In other words,” said Engineer, smiling warmly by then, “Ah take it ya don’t wanna guard the intel anymore?”

Scout raised his scattergun, giving him a smile in return. “That's right. I don’t. ‘Cause being on offense makes me proud. Yeah, I’m better at it — but only because when I’m running and shootin’ and makin’ shit happen up there, it makes me feel like a part of RED. If I’m sittin’ around and textin’ some douchebag without botherin' to look up, whose team am I even on?”

Coming from Scout, that meant a lot. A moment was taken to admire his words, but then Engineer spoke up, solemnly; “Speaking of that, where’d your pager go?”

Scout huffed. “My pager? Since when do I even use my pager? Screw my pager.”

With Scout’s rapid help packing up his machines and lugging them downstairs, the switch from offense to defense only took about a minute. Once each machine was up and running Engineer gave the kid a cheerful thank-you, and Scout flashed him a thumbs up before running off to get the BLU briefcase.

* * *

 

The trip to the opposing intel room was fairly uneventful. No rockets were fired, no headshots were boomed, no sticky-bombs were kablooied. At one point, however, he heard the idle beeping of a big metal-rolling sentry behind a wall. He looked around and there were traces of blood and weapons his teammates had left behind.

Scout’s worried face, peering over the hallway wall, was scrunched in thought. Maybe there was an ambush to be discovered—a crouching Pyro, an uber-pair, a prosperous garden of stickies. He would have to get ready. Down went twelve ounces of Bonk, and then a blurred Scout bolted across the room, running past the turret’s bullets so quickly that he didn’t feel even a single pang of pain.

Boy, did it feel good to be himself, thought Scout as he ran down their intel stairs. It felt good to do certain things nobody else could. It felt good imagining your douchebag friend sitting on his bed wondering why you weren’t answering texts anymore. At the mental image Scout couldn't resist a smug smile.

The hallway to the BLU intel was eerily still...entirely silent. The pattering of his sneakers echoed as he went down the way. Why was it so quiet? Where was their team? And why had the sentry nest been so up-front before?

Then our Scout heard clicking. Familiar clicking. Very, very familiar clicking.

Scout snuck a quick peek into the intel room, in which he saw BLU Scout, absently chewing on his lip as he texted on his pager.

Our Scout slapped himself silently on the forehead. Did he look that stupid when Spy or Medic stared at him, not even receiving a look in reply? Holy jeez, he felt like an idiot. Was that really him fifteen minutes ago?

Scout walked calmly over to his counterpart, keeping a steady distance. He was surprised to see the lack of reaction from the other Scout, and kept his gun firmly aimed at him as he said, “Over here, dumbass.”

BLU Scout, jolted out of his little world, tossed his pager into the air and yipped; “WHAT DA F—”

He neared him, gun still raised. “Shut up. I’m gonna be nice to you.”

The BLU Scout sat there, defenseless. He put up his hands. “Why?” he asked.

“Why am I being nice to you?” repeated Scout, mostly to himself.

He nodded shakily.

Scout couldn’t pinpoint the reason himself. He thought about it hard, but nothing came to mind, so he let his mouth take control. “Because you’re an idiot,” he heard himself blurt out automatically. “Ha ha! Just look at you. On a battlefield and you didn’t bring one freakin’ weapon. You know what’s nice? Letting us grab da intel by textin’ some crappy friend of yours who doesn’t care if you die or not. Do you realize you're makin’ your entire team look like a bunch of sissies?”

The BLU gawked at him, mouth twitching, wide-eyed. “Uh,” he said, still not knowing why he wasn’t being shot at.

Our Scout smirked and nodded towards the upstairs portion of the base. “Listen up," he said. "I’m givin’ you three literal seconds to get your act together, or else I blow your face in.” He clicked his scattergun. “One...”

Before he could say ‘two’, BLU Scout had bolted away, forgetting his pager on the floor. 

* * *

After two more caps and lots of blood, sweat, and elbow grease, RED finally won the game. And they deserved it!

During the battle Scout had realized something: everyone was a necessary part of the team. Not just their cadence and physical ability, but their effort. After all, it was Scout’s effort and teamwork that got his team the three intels and won them the game. He knew it would, and it did.

So once the battle was over with, they all gave Scout a victory fist-pump for his sudden transition from being an idiot to being a little bit less of an idiot. And the winning team celebrated by driving to IHOP and snagging the biggest roundest table they had. Pancakes all around!


End file.
